


Paint Poems On Your Skin

by hateful_donuts



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Dark Catholicism, Denial, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Roman Catholicism, actually more like frenemies to lovers but w/e, one hundred percent done Foggy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:46:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7154174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hateful_donuts/pseuds/hateful_donuts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why the hell can’t you just stay?”</p>
<p>He feels scared all of a sudden. Fucking panicked. Even though he is the epitome of solitude, the thought that this was the end of life with Matt was unbearable.</p>
<p>He’s moving forward before he can stop himself, coming to a halt just inches away from the other man and tilting his face up.</p>
<p>(In which Frank is selfish, Father Lantom is actually helpful, Foggy is done, and Matt is victim to all sorts of idiotic people.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint Poems On Your Skin

It was all animosity at first. There was definitely no love lost between Daredevil and The Punisher, every citizen of Hell’s Kitchen could be certain. They fought with each other frequently; but they often fought together, too. Matt rarely deigned to allow his body to fall into the ever changing choreography of a good fight alongside Frank; but when he does, it’s always short and bloody for the opposing side.

 

(Their enemies have trouble keeping up with just _one_ of the two vigilantes. Both? It was out of the question. If Matt hadn’t devoted his life to bringing lowlives to justice, he would have almost felt it was unfair.)

 

When they fought _each other_ , it was also bloody; just, not nearly as short. Matt would feel his sense of time unwind and lose all meaning in the course of the frenzy. They would punch, kick, even headbutt each other; swing over rooftops and chase each other down. The whole course of the interaction, an inexplicable feeling--not quite an emotion, but something close-- would run through his veins, buzzing like a live wire.

 

It always meant trouble for Hell’s Kitchen when the two of the crossed paths. They would disagree on most things- important, petty. There was no difference between the two: they would always result in the same things. A shouting match, a fist fight (slash angry parkour session), and the increasingly exasperated looks of the day to day people as they observed their mascot and their pet serial killer have at it like an old married couple.

 

When the endless fights were done, one of them pinned and both of them breathless, Matt felt the buzz in his veins grow ever stronger.

 

-

 

Their most recent… Disagreement... had ended fairly strangely: He had been the tentative winner of their impromptu little match, for once. He had The Punisher pinned awkwardly against a wall, his elbows and legs employed in trapping him where his hands couldn’t reach. Sweat had dripped down both of their faces; Then, an incredible stillness had seemed to take hold of them both. It was an intense silence, completely still. Frank had stared into his face, and Matt had listened to the subtle sounds the man before him made. His heartbeat was the loudest: it was slow and steady despite their brawl, but it would change rhythm ever so often whenever Frank turned his head.

 

Matt had withdrawn his grip slowly, trying not to show the sudden _weakness_ that he felt. He also tried not to take note of the fact that Frank had stopped struggling to break free a while ago. The whole moment was strange and, in his opinion, somewhat awkward. He had decided to put it behind him and steer clear of the other man for a while.

 

There was a strange conflict that rose within him whenever he came across The Punisher, and it always steered him off track for days after their encounters. He would question himself; the feelings he felt, and who he felt them for. 

 

So he had stalked over to the edge of the rooftop they were on, “looking” over his shoulder at the man behind him, who was pushing himself up from the wall and dusting off his pants and jacket.

 

“You should stay out of Hell’s Kitchen, Punisher. I can keep criminals at bay just fine on my own,” He spoke, voice in his gruff and scratchy “Daredevil mode”.

 

“You’re sure doing a great job,” Frank’s voice was even parts sarcasm and disdain. “Look around you. When will you realize that your way doesn’t work?”

 

They had been fighting about methods.

 

“That’s my problem to worry about, not yours.” Matt had leapt away before Frank could even begin a response.

 

-

 

For some strange reason, that evening, Matt had called Claire. He didn’t know why he did-- He wasn’t injured. But the impulse was there all the same. It had been about twelve am, and only when the phone began to ring did he realize how stupid this idea was. He had half hoped that she wouldn’t answer; that he’d be forced to face his idiotic problems himself.

 

She picked up the phone.

 

“Matt? What’s wrong? Are you hurt again?” Her voice was groggy. He had instantly felt guilty, both for waking her up, and for only calling her when he was hurt, or had problems he wanted to load off on her.

 

“I- I’m sorry I woke you, Claire. I just… Didn’t really know who else to call.”

 

“What’s wrong?” She urged.

 

“I’m not really sure, exactly.” She sighed. “I keep feeling... _something_. Around someone that I really shouldn’t be feeling it around, and-. Well. You know what, never mind, this was a stupid idea. I’m sorry for waking you up.” How could he ask for help when he didn’t even know what he needed help _with?_

 

“Listen, Matthew. You’re catholic, right?” She asked, her sigh audible even over the phone. .

 

“Yeah, what does that have to do with anything-”

 

“If your priest isn’t some grouchy asshole, go see him sometime. He’ll be able to give you personal advice at length, which is something that I _can’t_ really offer.” She cut me off. “But Matt? Be careful, and… Don’t let anyone or anything tell you how you should live your life. There is no ‘Feeling something- for someone you shouldn’t’. Unless they’re a serial killer or someone.” she chuckled.

 

-

 

A few weeks went by. Matt didn’t see Frank at all during the course of them.

 

He didn’t stop by the church either. Perhaps he couldn’t find the time.

 

Perhaps he was scared.

 

-

 

Matt woke up exactly three weeks after his encounter with Frank with a heavy feeling on his chest and a litany of traitorous thoughts running through his head. They flitted back and forth around his brain, refusing to be tied down by reason.

 

Where had The Punisher been these past few days? ‘ _Did he even want to see Frank in the first place?’_

 

Why had he chosen _then_ of all times to vanish? ‘ _Did Matt give himself away?’_

 

Wasn’t it unfair that Matt knew his name, but Frank didn’t know Matt’s? ‘ _How long has he been Frank Castle to me, not The Punisher?’_

 

Insecurities like this had no place in his day to day lifestyle. Fellow men of the law could _smell_ weakness.

 

One day his life as Daredevil was going to trip him up.

 

The sad thing was, he had no one to catch him when ( _when)_ he fell.

 

-

 

The Punisher was back in Hell’s Kitchen. Back hunched, he was perched on the edge of a generator. He was fiddling with a gun, the movement of his fingers deft and familiar with the weapon. Matt landed soundlessly nearby. Frank didn’t look up, but Matt could tell he knew he was there. 

 

“It’s been a while, Red. I took your advice. Got outta town for a while, but I missed the view here.” His voice was as gravelly as ever. He rose up from the humming generator with a somewhat graceless heave.

 

The rooftops were a cold place to be this time of the year, Matt observed. He felt goosebumps rising up underneath his suit. 

 

“Red, I-”

 

“Let’s go patrol. I need to beat some sense into someone right now.” Matt cut him off. He pulled off his gloves, and tucked them carelessly into his belt. All he wanted right now was a good, old fashioned _brawl_.

 

Frank chuckled. It was a deep sound. Dark, but not entirely-.

 

Matt cut himself off right there.

 

“You see, Red. It’s not just me who craves a little violence once in awhile.”

 

-

 

They found conflict pretty easily, Matt noticed. A couple of screwed up vigilantes like them were drawn to violence like moths to something warm and bright.

 

It was a gang war. These things always made him feel a bit disdainful of the area, of the crime it housed. It was so ridden with shit like this.

 

Syndicates like this were what got his dad killed, and he wasn’t exactly forgiving about it.

 

He and Frank entered the fray easily, jumping down from a fire escape, and then ambushing. It was all fists, feet, and broken teeth. Nothing to it but listen, and feel. It was always a rush to fight so many people. The dark part of him, the part that craved violence like Frank had said, screamed and clawed at all times but _these_. He fell into muscle memory, and the goddamn noise almost, _almost_ disappeared.

 

Then someone stuck a knife in his side.

 

No matter how many times it happened, it still hurt like hell. He stiffened up, clutching at the wound to try and minimize damage and stop himself from having to deal with blood loss. Again.

 

Frank finally pulled out his gun, and shot the guy who was clutching the bloody knife. Right between the eyes. Matt tried to feel a little betrayed at the killing. All he could muster up was feeling a little sad.

 

Feeling a little pleased?

 

God, he was sick.

 

Frank pulled Matt’s arm over his shoulder and hauled him onto the fire escape, and then onto the roof connected to it. Frank had a little bit of a thing for roof’s, didn’t he?

 

Matt thought he might be a little delirious.

 

“Jeez Red. Lemme see that cut.” He rolled him over onto his back, stretching out the new hole in Matt’s costume just enough to see the wound.

 

“It’s hardly a cut,” Matt replied a little testily.

 

“Yeah, but I’ve seen worse. You’ll live.”

 

Matt sat up with the help of a (large) hand on his shoulder, and leaned against the edge of the rooftop. It had gotten colder, and he could almost feel the fog his breath was making. When he was a kid, he had always loved when it was cold enough to see his breath. He would roll up some paper and pretend he was a grown up, smoking.

 

It was probably for the best that the _smell_ of cigarettes alone made him want to vomit these days. Being hypersensitive in most respects only had a few perks, and he guessed this was one of them.

 

Frank was staring. He could feel it. He licked his lips, a nervous little tick, and cursed himself for it afterwards. Frank had lifted one of Matt’s hands into his, and he cursed foregoing the gloves. He could feel the callouses on the palm underneath his.

 

“Your knuckles are cut up too.” The deep voice seemed to pull Matt out of a reverie, and he defensively yanked his hand away, hissing at the sensation of cold air on his injured knuckles.

 

“Since when do you care? What do you want from me?”

 

“I’m just saying, you probably shouldn’t forego the gloves next time.”

 

“Wow, forego. Big word,” Matt taunted.

 

“Ah, shut the hell up. I don’t want to hit an injured man.” Frank grabbed the front of his costume.

 

“Yeah, _right_.” Frank was getting closer.

 

They were kissing. Matt felt his chapped lips, his teeth, his tongue. It was harsh, it wasn’t poetic or filled with any gentle emotion. It was something tacky like a bar fight in the form of a kiss. He didn’t touch the man before him, kept one hand on the ground and one on his wound, but he had his face shoved into Frank’s, their noses knocking. His mouth felt hot, and his lips were bruised; Franks stubble tickled his cheek. But what he noticed the most was his scent. Leather, gunpowder, metal, all mixed up into something Matt _liked--._

 

He drew away like he had been burned, and stood up, swaying a little as a sudden onslaught of vertigo hit him like a freight train.

 

“I need to go, hospital-” Matt hadn’t even finished his sentence before he was jumping away, no destination in mind, just _away_. He was conflicted, not knowing whether to wipe his mouth or touch it softly like some infatuated schoolgirl.

 

_Infatuated?_

 

His feet took him automatically to the church.

 

The doors were open, surprisingly, and even more surprisingly, Father Lantom was awake and knelt down in a pew. The church smelled like it always did: frankincense, myrrh, and old wood. Vague memories of a warm glow flashed through his mind, along with the sound of his dad’s voice. The Father stood up and turned to face him, clasping his hands behind his back. Matt belatedly realized he was still in full costume.

 

“We get a lot of strange people who come to pray at night, Matthew, that’s why we keep our doors open at this hour,” the old man said, walking deeper into the church. Matt followed him, unsurprised by the Father’s… Well, his lack of surprise.

 

“Father?” Matt asked softly.

 

“What is it Matthew? What’s troubling you?” The elder sat down after crossing himself in the direction of the alter. Matt did the same, but remained standing, tapping his feet slightly.

 

“I kissed someone today. A man.” It came out in a rush, and he felt panic gripping at him. There was no going back now.

 

“Ah. Kid. You know that I don’t have the most conventional views on my faith, don’t you? In my opinion, God made a glorious world, and in that world, many different people. When there is so much evil in the world, how can something like love be so demonic? Your nuns back at the orphanage probably taught you differently, but some of the stuff those little old ladies say is crazy anyway.”

 

“It’s… Not exactly _love_ , Father.” Matt could feel himself relaxing slightly, taking a seat behind the older man.

 

“That’s always been your undoing, boy. Something pretty walks by, and you can tell! It’s like a radar,” The old man grumbles, and Matt thinks of Foggy.

 

“Coming in here with a new girlfriend each month, I swear. And coming into my church with that getup! Oh Lord. Matthew, liking boys is the least of _your_ issues.” Matt could feel himself going red under his half mask, and he hastily got up, crossing himself and then turning once more to Lantom.

 

“Thanks, Father-”

 

“You’re hurt, aren’t you. Is that a stab wound? What the hell, Matthew! Get on outta here, go see a doctor! God made modern medicine for a reason you know!” He shouted, and Matt was already turning away.

 

His anxiety had slightly abated now, and he had the time to feel a little guilty for leaving Frank alone on that cold rooftop.

 

He was a big boy, though, and Matt had had some shit to figure out. When your caretakers from early childhood on have impressed upon you the importance of never looking at your gender with lust, or even romance, it was hard to just kiss a guy and be okay with it.

 

-

 

He hadn’t gone to the hospital at all. He had sat down on his couch with his first aid kit and a glass of the strong stuff, and got to work.

 

Six stitches.

 

He drank to ‘no internal bleeding’.

 

-

 

“A _stab wound?_ Dammit, Matt.” Foggy sounded both irate and concerned, but that was pretty much his default these days.

 

Matt tried not to feel bad.

 

“I know, I know. I try to be careful, it’s just a little hard sometimes,” he said, trying his best to explain himself away. Foggy continued as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

 

“Forget _Daredevi_ l! Your new nickname should be ‘Captain Drama: King of cheesy backstories, and poor taste in girlfriends! If you like romantic tragedies, come hang out with our friendly neighborhood vigilante! Like Spiderman, but angrier!’” Ouch.

 

“I’m nothing like Spiderman. At all.” Matt wasn’t defensive. No way.

 

“The red spandex says differently, my friend,” Foggy really wasn’t letting up, was he.

 

“It’s not spandex.” Matt wasn’t pouting either.

 

“Then why, oh why, do whiny little gangsters keep stabbing through it like it’s made of butter!”

 

“It’s a little… worn out in some places?” He was never going to live this down.

 

“You can’t just ‘Daredevil it up’ with a worn out suit, Matty! If you keep this up you’ll get really hurt! It’s not like you have someone _there_ with you to pull you back _out_ of these ‘sticky situations’,” Foggy groaned, rubbing his temples exasperatedly.

 

“I don’t always go in solo,” Matt tried to reason.

 

“Who the hell do you work with, then? One of your ninja ex’s? Next thing you know, you’ll be rendezvous-ing with The Punisher!”

 

Oh dear.

 

“Well…I-”

 

“Wait, shut up for a second- The Punisher!? _Really_!?”

 

-

 

Matt had gotten fairly used to Frank flitting in and out of his life; sometimes he was in Hell’s Kitchen for a couple of weeks, and mostly, he was away. That’s why, when Frank appeared three days later, he was a little shocked, and a little annoyed. No amount of reminding himself of Lantom’s words made the anxious knot in his stomach go away.

 

So, when he was faced with the object of the discord in his life, he was less than thrilled. He had so many options from here on out, and he didn’t know which one to take. Yet another conflict had been added to his conscience. 

 

The night was cold; but that wasn’t really surprising. It would be a literal cold day in hell before they had a warm autumn night in Hell’s Kitchen. Once again, the pair were on a roof. It was default for them; they both needed the feeling of having a perfect vantage point of everyone beneath them. This was the only way someone accustomed to “battle” could feel at ease.

 

Frank’s presence weighed on his senses like a rock. Somehow, the world around him dimmed a little, quieted in his presence. Frank was like a fucking _beacon_ in the world of flames surrounding Matt. Everything about him had become so familiar in such a short amount of time. His steady heartbeat (even when he ran), his smell, the way he moved.

 

Matt felt like cursing himself into oblivion.

 

“Miss me, Red?”

 

He had already made his decision. Before the large man beside him could start talking some more, he reached up, and removed his mask. Pivoting his body to face Frank he “Stared him down” with blank eyes.   

 

The other man sucked in a breath, heart rate quickening in surprise. He got closer, as if to verify that Daredevil was _really_ Matt Murdock, his _blind_ lawyer.

 

“You? How!?” _How do you do what you do? How on earth can you be the grouchy, blind attorney, Matthew Murdock?_

 

“I became blind in an accident some years ago. Now, I can basically see the world around me because my senses have been heightened to a large degree. I’m also a lawyer. That’s why I’m sort of a stickler for justice,” he said, words coming out in a fast string. He had delivered this speech however many times now, and it was practically scripted at this point.

 

“So all this time, you’ve known _me_ , but I haven’t known you?” Was Frank’s candid response.

 

“That's- pretty much the whole point of having a mask?”

 

“Shit, you know that’s not what I meant,” he said, mumbling _sassy fucker_ under his breath. Matt blessed his ability.

 

“I heard that.”

 

All Frank did was smirk.

 

 “Let’s start over. I’m Matthew Michael Murdock, attorney at law, and part time protector of Hell’s Kitchen.”

 

“I know who you are,” he snapped. “I don’t have to go to the trouble of introducing myself, do I?”

 

“No. I guess not.”

 

-

 

They were kissing again, but this time, Matt wasn’t immobile and in shock. He had his hands lifted up and over the broad shoulders of the man before him, fingers intertwined behind his neck. Frank pushed him back so that he was pinned to the door that led to the stairwell, his hands resting on Matt’s hips.

 

Their second kiss was a bit less clumsy than the first. Instead of teeth knocking against teeth, it was teeth biting lips, and instead of their bodies being an awkward two feet apart, they were practically chest to chest. Warmth sped through Matt’s veins in a now familiar buzz, and he felt as if his whole body was being licked away at by a pleasant fire. Usually every part of his body was cold. His hands, his feet. It was reflected by the supreme apathy he felt in his day to day life. That all seemed to melt away in Frank’s presence. 

 

He always seemed to go for the people that would inevitably hurt him the worst. According to everyone he knew, it was a catholic thing.

 

His latest was even called “The Punisher.”

 

Fuck his life.

 

-

 

Matt grips Franks wrist as his hand slips around and under his shirt. He had no trouble finding where the top of the suit began and the pants ended.

 

He did better than Matt on the best of days.

 

“We aren’t fucking on a goddamn roof, Frank,” Matt almost growled, barely even noticing this was the first time he had called the other man Frank in costume.

 

“I thought that was our thing,” he chuckled, pulling his hand away but keeping Matt pinned against the wall. “Where do you propose we go, then?”

 

“We could always go to my place,” Matt said, suddenly feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

 

“Lead the way, Red,” Frank said, finally moving away from Matt.

 

“Frank?” he asked over his shoulder, already walking over to the edge of the roof.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can you... Stop calling me Red, now?”

 

“Not a chance in hell.”

 

Matt’s fist connected solidly with Frank’s bicep before he even had the chance to dodge.

 

-

 

There was nothing romantic about the way their bodies slid together. Kisses and bites connected with Matt’s neck, leaving light marks there. His hands slid all over the chest of the man above him, memorizing scars, and the patterns the muscles made.

 

When they screwed, it felt like the whole world went silent. All of the constant noise that constantly drowned him, faded.

 

He was left with only Frank.

 

-

 

Frank didn’t become any more of a permanent fixture in Matt’s life than before. He was still gone for weeks at a time, and Matt didn’t want to know where he got to.

 

He would wake up to an empty bed every single time Frank stayed the night. Matt didn’t know if he even did _that_. Maybe they fucked, and then Frank waited until Matt was sleeping to leave. Pitied him enough to wait

 

Maybe he didn’t want to deal with Matt telling him to stay.

 

Matt felt weak.

 

(Why did he want him to stay?)

 

-

 

The Daredevil had become reckless, leaving his gloves behind more often than not. Something about the feel of his bare fists hitting criminals gave him life. Brought him out of the strange fog that seemed to shroud him most days.

 

This was bad.

 

It was one thing having a casual relationship with someone who didn’t love him.

 

It was another thing to _feel something_ for that person.

 

This was really, really bad.

 

He tore through his enemies. Rage, confusion, and a sense of _loneliness_ , worse than before, fueled him. 

 

Matt prayed for the first time in what felt like _months_ that night. Maybe it had been months. Maybe it had been years. His hands were bloody (his own, other’s.) and he cringed when he felt some of the liquid smear onto his silk sheets.

 

He contemplated his feelings.

 

He contemplated the terrible sensation of losing someone you never could have called _your’s_ in the first place.

 

-

 

Frank leaves. He leaves for his own, twisted reasons. He wakes up early, before the sun rises, and observes the sleeping man beside him. The rise and fall of his chest, the way he curls into warmth. The colours of early morning shifting on his skin.

 

He gets up, softly, and vanishes. He leaves Matt behind.

 

And he feels more and more terrible each time.

 

It’s stupid. He’s cold blooded, not a romantic. Not some fawning teenager. But he feels dreadful every time he gets out of the bed and Matthew shifts around; his pretty hands groping for something that isn’t there anymore.

 

He feels like a monster ( _he is_ ), but it almost feels necessary to leave before dawn.

 

To vanish for a couple weeks and kill off some lowlives to set himself straight.

 

-

 

The first time Daredevil took off that stupid mask, Frank had almost been frozen in shock. Not just because this was Matthew Murdock, his lawyer; but because this was Matthew Murdock without his red glasses on, without his hair slicked back, and the aura of something cold blooded. His blank eyes seemed to shine in the light of a nearby streetlamp; they looked like marbles. Unmoving and glassy, but beautiful. Hazel. This Matthew Murdock was warm blooded, fiery. He didn’t feel sorry for himself for being blind. Blind was _him_ , what _made_ him.

 

(His voice was different, too. Softer.)

 

Frank knew he was screwed from that moment on.

 

-

 

After a month or so of them fucking, he begins to notice Matt growing distant. He’s more quiet; resentment paints his features every time Frank comes back.

 

He thinks he should stop; should leave Matt alone.

 

He can’t.

 

-

 

It’s at the end of November when Frank comes back to Matt’s place after a long “mission”, and finds him hunched over on his fire escape, bleeding all over.

 

He pauses in shock and then yanks open the window, dragging Matt inside and trying not to bump his head or his wounds. He gets Matt onto his ugly couch, and starts peeling off his suit, looking for the worst injuries. The first aid kit is in the same place as always; stashed under the couch where it was needed most.

 

He grabs a washcloth and wipes away the blood on the other man’s torso, disinfecting and applying gauze to everything that needs attention. He still doesn’t know why Matt has gone all still like this until he takes off his mask; there is a large bump on his forehead, but that’s not the problem.

 

Matt’s eyes are open. He’s mouthing something: _Frank._

 

“Can’t hear.” he was whispering, but Frank still caught it. His blood ran cold, and, as if taken by some foreign instinct, he grabbed Matt’s hand. It was covered in blood. Disregarding it, he traced patterns on his palm, looking at and feeling the calloused but beautiful appendages.

 

Matt suddenly sits up, snatching his hand away, and lifting his body up with a suppressed grunt of pain.

 

“Frank,” he says, almost like an accusation.

 

“You probably shouldn’t be sitting up yet,” he tries to reason with him.

 

“I don’t need to hear this shit from you,” Matt hisses, and starts to move towards the window. Frank realizes that he’s trying to leave, to patrol some more. He’s already on top of the fire escape before Frank springs up and goes after him, squeezing himself through the window and grabbing Matt by the shoulder.

 

“What’s your problem, Red!” He shouts. If he wasn’t immersed in the strange behavior of the man before him, he would have been more shocked by the fact that snow was starting to fall. It was illuminated softly into neon colours by the behemoth of a billboard nearby.

 

“You’re my problem!” Matt yells back, slipping his shoulder out of Frank’s grasp and grabbing his mask, making a move to put the stupid thing back on.

 

Frank growls and knocks it out of his hands; it flies into the open window of Matt’s apartment.

 

“ _What_ is your problem!” He repeats.

 

“Why do you always leave?” Matt’s response is quiet. He seems to have been drained of all fire, and looks tired. Really fucking tired.

 

He turns, and climbs back through the window, into his living room. Frank follows.

 

“I’m used to being used by people and then thrown away like fucking garbage, but I just. I thought that…” He stops, curling in on himself.

 

“No, Matt, that’s not what I-”

 

“Then why the hell can’t you just _stay_?”

 

He feels _scared_ all of a sudden. Fucking _panicked._ Even though he is the epitome of solitude, the thought that this was the end of life with Matt was unbearable.

 

He’s moving forward before he can stop himself, coming to a halt just inches away from the other man and tilting his face up.

 

“Over time, everything that I cherish, everything that I… Love, is ripped away from me. You’re not immortal, you go out there and you nearly kill yourself every night.” This whole thing came from someplace in him more twisted than the rest. _Maybe if Matthew hates me, I can keep him for myself for just a bit longer._

 

There was still snow on Matt’s eyelashes. He was beautiful, he really was.

 

“We could never work out,” Matt says, closing his eyes as if it pains him to say it.

 

“Who gives a fuck about ‘maybes’.” Frank is kissing him again. It’s a different kiss than the violent others.

 

It’s bruising, but in a good way. Harsh, passionate, but tender all the same.

 

He’s leading Matt to the couch and leaning over him, kissing his neck, his throat, his collarbone. All of the skin is littered here and there with scars. Matt’s beautiful hands are on his face again, and they are as gentle as ever; his touches are feather soft as he maps out Frank’s face.

 

They still look beautiful, even covered in another man’s blood.

 

Matt’s clothes have long since been peeled off, but Frank keeps his on, and the man beneath him shudders at the sensation of cold leather against bare skin.The rough sensation makes his breath hitch. He reaches over, sliding the coat off and on to the floor, and Frank finally starts pulling the rest of his clothes off. He’s left in only his boxers, and he props Matt up against the side of the couch, pausing when the smaller man hisses in discomfort.

 

He has wounds on his back. Frank feels like kicking himself. He pulls Matt up, so that he is practically on his lap, and twists, so that he is the one against the armrest of the couch instead.

 

Matt is straddling his waist, head lifted high as he feels frank’s cock through the cotton of his pants. Frank hisses, and his hands lift up, travelling over the muscles of Matt’s back and expertly avoiding the gauze. The window is still open, and goosebumps travel up the arms of the man above him, nipples hardening. Frank leans up to suck on one, smoothing out the little bump, and leaving the raised, pink flesh slick with spit. They’re kissing again; their lips move slowly, almost lazily together..

 

Matt is illuminated by the billboard, his skin splashed with different colours as they flash around the room. It looks like they’re underwater, and their breaths are fogging from the cold outside air; he has never felt so warm.

 

Matt is beautiful, statuesque; Frank has some last minute doubts about how suited they were for each other, but then the other man leans down and rests his forehead on Franks, the loveliest smile painted on his lips. Frank is moving then, groping in one of the drawers in the coffee table next to them, feeling around for the lube and condoms he knows (from experience) are in there.

 

His hands travel down and around Matt’s muscular ass, fingers slipping between, and spreading, the cheeks. He’s slipping his fingers up with lube, then, and gently circling Matt’s entrance, dipping the tip of his finger in, waiting a bit, and then curling it.

 

Matt’s back arches, and he presses himself down on the cold finger, the sensation arousing his already hard length. Bits of precum are leaking from the tip. Frank adds more fingers, scissoring, and stretching. He finds his prostate after a while, and Matt groans in pleasure at the sensation.

 

And then Matt turns his head, angles his face down; his glistening blank eyes seem to stare into Frank’s soul.

 

“Please.”He implores, his beautiful, bloodstained hands curling underneath the rim of Frank’s boxers. Frank grabs his hands, drawing circles into the skin with his thumbs, and then puts them on his shoulders. He pulls his boxers the rest of the way off, and tears open the condom, slipping it on.

 

Positioning himself in just the right spot, Matt lifts himself, hands braced on Frank’s shoulders, and sinks down. He hisses, and sways a little, tilting his head back so that his throat is in full view, adam’s apple bouncing. Frank leans up and kisses his neck, Matt wrapping his arms around his shoulders and placing his chin on his elbow.

 

Shifting slightly, he groans at the sensation. Matt is hot and tight, and he starts to move, thrusting slowly. The other man moves with him, both of them falling into a synchronicity of thrusts. Slowly, the pace begins to pick up, and Matt is bouncing, soft brown hair matted with sweat and flopping about his face.

 

He tries to hold in his groans, thrusting into Matt as hard as he could. No words are needed between them.

 

 He watches as the other grew silent and licked his lips; Frank grabbed onto his hips, hitting his prostate in measured strokes.

 

The sensation is too much, and Matt is groaning, arching his back and digging his nails his shoulder. He comes all over his stomach; his walls clenching around Frank’s cock. He keeps going, Matt’s aftershock induced shudders providing all the stimulation he needs to come not long afterwards.

 

He thrusts lazily, pistoning inside the smaller man, before drawing out, and pulling off the condom. He ties it up and tosses it in a nearby garbage can.

 

This is the first time Matt has come without needing to be touched.

 

Frank clutches the slightly shuddering man on top of him; his arms wrapping protectively around his waist. Sighing into the crook of his neck, he mumbles softly.

 

“You know, I really do-.” He couldn’t say it. It was terrible, but he couldn’t say it.

 

_‘I really do love you.’_

 

“I know,” Matt replies, and that is all he needs.

 

-

 

They had moved to the bed, closing the window while they were at it. Matt had clicked his tongue when his bare foot came into contact with a patch of snow, but Frank simply threw a towel over the mess, and led him to the bedroom. Matt felt better than he had in months, the ache in his muscles now feeling _good_ rather than guilty.

 

“You never told me in detail how you lost your sight, you know. And why your hearing went out, earlier,” Frank broke the silence, his voice sending pleasant vibrations through his body.

 

“Hmm. Later. Can you keep talking? It feels nice,” says Matt, his head rested on Frank’s chest, the beat of his heart steady, and comforting to listen to. He doesn’t want to talk about depressing shit like that right then. He is happy; happier than he had been in months.

 

“Sure thing, Red.”

 

-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'm really really sorry my first fic sucked so bad, but I kinda rushed it (I'm doing finals) and I didn't read through it before posting. I know for a fact that I majorly screwed up some caps/ tenses, but I tried! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! (ﾉ･ｪ･)ﾉ


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